


On the Beat

by austenfan1990



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-20 01:42:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4768832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/austenfan1990/pseuds/austenfan1990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The adventures of Jonathan Strange and Arabella Woodhope, charting their rise and relationship through the ranks of the Metropolitan Police.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Embarkation

**Author's Note:**

> Rating more for language than sexual content at the moment but who knows, maybe I may try my hand at writing something smutty for the first time in my life. 
> 
> This is probably going to be a collection of oneshots inspired by an [idea](http://almaviva90.tumblr.com/post/128097851902/darn-ive-recently-got-into-my-head-an-idea-about) I had about a modern!AU fic revolving around the characters of _Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell_ being one way or another working or related to the Metropolitan Police. Hopefully I haven't ruined the characters by doing so...
> 
> Jonathan and Arabella definitely do not belong to me but instead (and rightfully so) to Susanna Clarke, Bertie Carvel and Charlotte Riley.

He sticks out like a sore thumb, he really does. It’s bad enough that he’s already been designated as the ‘posh one’ only three weeks into training, that he doesn’t have or indeed has made any friends here, and he certainly doesn’t need a bloody nosebleed – literally – to make him feel a hell of a lot worse.

But of course, a nosebleed makes its presence known at the most inopportune moment: in the middle of a lecture on the use of non-aggressive tactics and via a drop of blood on the pristine white of his shirt. Rather than excusing himself and going to the loo, he decides to sniff a little – a childhood tactic – trying in vain to hold it in. The effects are twofold, neither of which are what he wants: first, he discovers he’s sniffled a little _too_ hard so that his nosebleed is no longer a manageable trickle but a flood and second, he’s now attracted the attention of not only Sergeant Barnes but also his fellow student officers who are sitting closest to him, their faces either amused, pitying or derisive or an irritating mixture of all three.

Sergeant Barnes’ own expression, unlike the others, is curiously impassive. Jonathan does not know how to interpret it. He opens his mouth and Jonathan has the terrible feeling that he’s going to call him out and humiliate him in front of everyone.

_Look at him. That is precisely the sort of police officer we have no time for at the Met. Posh, prone to nosebleeds and possessing no sense whatsoever. Strange, you’re a failure and you are doomed to fail at everything you turn your hand to. Get out._

Barnes doesn’t say any of that, obviously. Because Jonathan has, momentarily in his heightened embarrassment and anguish, confused the sergeant for his father. (And as weird as it sounds, Barnes would probably be a million times better a father than Laurence Strange could ever be.)

Instead he says, ‘I’d say now’s a good time for a short break as I see some of you nodding off in the back there.’ There is suddenly a self-conscious titter from behind. ‘See you all back here in ten.’

Forty chairs are pushed back as if in sync, the legs scraping noisily against the floor but Jonathan is out of the door first. He heads straight to the bathroom – an exaggeration really since it’s only a single cubicle – and lets out his choicest swearwords when he discovers there’s no tissue. Anywhere.

‘Fuck this, fuck my life and most of all, fuck this fucking nosebleed!’ he shouts at his reflection in the mirror and he storms out, pushing the door open with no great care. There comes a surprised cry from behind the door and then the unmistakable thump of someone falling to the ground.

Great, now he’s nearly bloody killed someone as well.

‘God, I’m so sorry.' He hastily manoeuvres around the door, trying not to cause further injury, and shutting it behind him. He looks down and recognises his victim as one of his classmates. He immediately helps her up, knowing her face but doesn’t recall her name; he’d been too keyed up on Induction Day to pay much attention to anyone.

‘Do you always barge out of the bathroom like that?’ she asks. Curiously she doesn’t sound angry and she looks more shaken than anything else. She’s on her feet now and at her full height but he realises that he’s still a head taller than her.

‘Er, no,’ replies Jonathan sheepishly. ‘Not really. At least I hope not.’

‘Thank God for that. Because you do know that it’s our job to protect lives, not to scare the living daylights out of people?’ Again, her tone is anything but accusatory and she even appears to be smiling a little at him. ‘You’re Strange, aren’t you?’

‘Sorry?’ he says, taken aback and just the tiniest bit hurt. His nerves are raw at this point.

‘I mean, that’s your name. You’re Jonathan Strange.’

‘Why, yes…how…’

‘Sergeant Barnes asked me to check whether you’re okay.’

Barnes certainly meant to be kind but poor Jonathan is not in the mood for sympathy. He starts babbling and as usual, without thinking.

‘Did he really? How did he point me out? Called me the posh, pathetic one with a nosebleed, who comes to work on a punt from Cambridge and who in probability has a rendering of the Queen tattooed on my back?’

He goes on and on and by the end of it, he’s breathing deeply, having rattled on all the snide remarks which have come his way over the past three weeks. The most miserable three weeks of his life. And today…well, it might well be the worst day so far. Perhaps it’s a sign that he should call it quits. Like everything else he’s done in his twenty-four-years of living.

She just stares at him and he recognises grimly that he’s definitely lost _her_ sympathy too now.

‘Just so you know, the sergeant didn’t have to point you out at all. He didn’t have to, nor did anyone else. I’ve known who you are since Induction Day. You know, the first time when we were all assembled in the seminar room and had to introduce ourselves, remember?’

‘Right…yes, of course,’ he mumbles, lying through his teeth. Unfortunately he can’t remember _her_ name and it’s making him feel very uncomfortable, especially seeing that she clearly knows him quite well.

‘Your comments about ethics and modern policing last week were very interesting,’ she says and again, he’s taken aback.

‘Wait, you were actually listening? I thought everyone was too busy sniggering behind their notebooks or clipboards or whatever.’

‘Of course, I was listening,’ she replies a little impatiently. ‘Some of us do want to become police officers, you know.’

‘Who exactly?’ It's meant to be ironic, perhaps even rhetorical but she answers him.

‘Dunno. People like you and me, I suppose.’

It’s now Jonathan’s turn to stare. No one’s ever wanted to be associated with him, even people who have known him for years. Voluntarily, anyway. Yes, there are his ‘friends’ at Eton and Cambridge, but all of them are sons of friends of his father’s and who basically form a sad, miniature version of an old boys’ club – yet another reason why he threw himself into police training (in an attempt to get away from his suffocatingly privileged background, not to mention his father).

And here she was, almost a complete stranger, artlessly linking herself with him in a single phrase. They’re only words, he tells himself, not a proposal of marriage or anything, but he knows better than anyone the power of words and the hurt, and in this case, pleasure it can cause. He decides that he rather enjoys the feeling and would certainly want it repeated in future.

‘Look, I feel like a complete prat but I still don’t know your…’ he starts.

‘Arabella!’

She turns her head, giving him a wonderful view of her slender neck as she does so. His mood having brightened considerably, Jonathan only now begins to realise how pretty she – Arabella – is. Well, at least he knows her name now.

The man who has called her name comes into view, it’s one of their fellow trainees and obviously a friend of hers.

‘Lecture’s back on, love.’ His gaze oscillates between them. Jonathan finds he couldn’t care less about what the man is thinking or looking at. It’s the endearment he’s given Arabella which rankles him and he doesn't understand why.

‘Thanks, Roger,’ replies Arabella. Jonathan is half-convinced that she’s going to go off with him but surprisingly she doesn’t move. With a last curious look at them, Roger returns alone to the classroom.

She turns to Jonathan. ‘Sorry, you were going to ask me something.’

‘I…well, never mind.’ He tilts his head in the direction of the retreating Roger. ‘Friend of yours?’

‘If you mean 'boyfriend', no,’ she replies as if reading his mind and he can feel his face reddening. This would be a terrible time to get another nosebleed, he thinks, and he puts his hand experimentally to his face. It comes away dry and most importantly, bloodless.

‘Oh shit, I nearly forgot. Here.’ She pulls out a packet of tissues and hands them to him.

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Sergeant Barnes didn’t give these to you, I hope. Because I don't see the sergeant being the tissue-carrying-type.’

Now it’s her turn to blush a little. ‘Er, no. They’re mine actually.’ Under his intense gaze – his very grey-green gaze – she confesses awkwardly, ‘Well, I have to admit that the sergeant didn’t ask me to check up on you. I went looking for you by myself. Thought you needed a bit of help...or something.’

‘That’s kind of you,’ he says softly, genuinely touched. ‘Thank you.’

‘Not at all,’ she says quickly and he can see she’s embarrassed. ‘Shall we go back?’

He smiles, making a mental note that the next time there’s a lecture, he’s going to sit right next to her, even if he has to fight tooth and nail to do so.

‘Let’s’.


	2. Chasing Cars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Profuse apologies in advance if this is a) totally inaccurate regarding police procedure, etc. and also b) totally out of character.

It’s been three years since they first met but they’re not dating, much to the surprise of those who know them. For now, they’re only partners on the beat. A lot of things have contributed to this state of affairs: the first being their assignment to different boroughs in the city upon passing out of training school and had, as was the norm, been partnered with more experienced officers.

Two years passed, silence reigned and contact appeared to be lost. Then fate, chance, or whatever one cared to call it brought them together again when Jonathan was assigned to Southwark Police Station and discovered that _she_ was there. Initially their reunion was awkward, both naturally assuming that the other had forgotten about them. Once they had broken the ice a little, it turned out that they’d been waiting for the other to get in touch and when no word was forthcoming, had decided not to do anything about it and got on with their life.

That was what Arabella had told him (and which was entirely true) and Jonathan had assured her that it had been exactly the same case with him (which was definitely _not_ true, but he would never have admitted that he had surreptitiously tried looking up her name in the official Met directories whenever the desk sergeant wasn’t around).

Arabella might have been the one who developed a crush on him first – though she continually tried to deny this – but it was Jonathan who wanted to take their friendship to the next level. She had refused, not because she didn’t like or care for him, but because she was reluctant to mix up their private and professional lives. Not when they had only discovered that they made a pretty good team on the streets.

‘I’d like to think of us as a sort of Torvill and Dean,’ she had said when they were having a tea break at the station. ‘I mean, they made such a good team and they triumphed at Sarajevo because of hard work, trust and dedication. Not because they were sleeping together.’

‘Bet you they were,’ said Jonathan lowly then found himself on the receiving end of one of her intense glares.

It was at that point that the whole situation turned a little _When Harry Met Sally_ (no prizes for guessing who was who) and then after a few minutes’ heated discussion – during which most of their colleagues took the opportunity of vacating the room – she said in frustration: ‘Have you ever seen how twisted some relationships get once sex gets into the picture? I wouldn’t like that happening to us at all.’

‘The sex or the twisted relationship?’ asked Jonathan facetiously.

‘Logically speaking, there can only be two outcomes,’ she went on, ignoring him. ‘Outcome A: we get together, turns out it’s amazing which is all well and good. But then it starts to interfere with our work because we can’t stop thinking about each other in that…that _way_.’

She had reddened a little here which Jonathan thought was charming.

‘And then there’s outcome B, the flipside of the coin. It turns out to be the most embarrassing experience of our lives. So much so that we can’t even talk, apart from managing a mumbled ‘Morning’ or something. Patrolling becomes _torture_ …’

‘Seriously, you’re thinking too much, Bell.’

‘Maybe,’ she agreed, sighing a little. ‘I suppose it’s our training. The whole ‘we-have-to-prepare-for-the-worst-case-scenario, what’s-our-contingency-plan’ which has gotten me into this state.’

‘If that’s the case, you might want to consider the bit where we were also trained to think on our feet. And since we’re running down the list of possibilities, how about the one which involves us being two responsible adults?’ he suggested with exasperating reasonableness.

No reply.

‘Whatever happens, we’ll just take it from there and muddle our way through. And look, if you’re so worried about things getting out of hand, I give you my word that I’ll try to behave while we’re on duty. Scout’s honour,’ he said, holding up his hand.

‘You were never a scout,’ she replied, almost automatically. ‘Were you?’

‘Okay, I never was. But my promise still stands.’

He saw her bite her lip, half-convinced. Jonathan was no brute, he could understand where she was coming from, the fear of the personal spilling over to the professional and vice versa. But in the year that they’ve spent together patrolling the streets, he was in a better position than anyone to know how fearless Arabella could be.

Her brother Henry may have grown up with her and raised her to a certain extent but only Jonathan knows firsthand what she’s capable of. He's seen her tackle burly, rugby-playing thugs twice her size without a second thought. He’s seen her donning riot gear, taking her place by his side as they both trudged into the fray. Last but not least, he’s marvelled at the sight of her talking their way out of a nasty confrontation with five knife-wielding gang members outside Tower Hill station.

Shakespeare himself couldn’t have had anyone but Arabella Woodhope in mind when he wrote, _‘And though she be but little, she is fierce.’_

Thus seeing her so unsure of herself unnerved him a little. But he didn’t want to push her into something that she wasn’t ready for. God knows how often his father had pushed _him_ into corners out of which he had felt powerless to fight. He would be a poor potential boyfriend indeed if he did the same to her.

So he retreated, giving her room to breathe and she had seemed to appreciate that. That was two months ago and the subject hadn’t been brought up since.

Unfortunately for Jonathan, pulling back hadn’t prevented him – no matter how hard he tried – from imagining how her lips would feel on his, her body warm and flush in his arms and the smell of her hair as he buried his face in the crook of her neck.

Naturally many a cold shower and a vague sense of shame had followed afterwards.

 

* * *

 

‘Jonathan, for God’s sake, get in here!’

Arabella’s voice brooks no refusal and reluctantly, Jonathan abandons his watch outside in the pouring rain. He removes his helmet and runs a tired hand through his dark curls as he takes his place beside her inside the café. It’s a place where they’ve been a few times off-duty so it’s a little odd being here now in uniform.

But they’re not here for a break, only for shelter from the rain.

‘Do you think the Superintendent will mind? Us being in here?’ he asks. He usually doesn’t give a damn what Superintendent Norrell thinks but his nerves are on edge today, not having gotten enough sleep the previous night and he is functioning on coffee alone, even if it’s only the smell of it keeping him awake at the moment.

‘As long as we’re not sipping lattes and eating hobnobs on duty, I doubt he’ll mind.’ She pauses and says quietly, ‘And more importantly, I’m not letting you catch another cold now that you’ve just recovered.’

Warmth blossoms at the pit of his stomach: he can’t help it, seeing that Arabella is so stinting in her affection now they’ve reached a critical point in their relationship. It’s as if she thinks holding back the odd endearment or two would delay the inevitable, like putting up a wall made of twigs and branches to hold back a tsunami. They’re too close now to say they don’t care for each other, but still far enough to be teetering on the edge of intimacy.

The tension, the sexual tension between them is palpable and he can sense that Arabella’s resolve is slowly crumbling with each passing day. Recently, he’s caught her looking at him more than once, especially when she thinks that he’s not paying attention and he knows he’s equally guilty of doing the same. Even now he realises that his own gaze has gone from looking out of the window to her face. There is perhaps a little too much squareness in the jaw for her to be described as conventionally beautiful but to him, she is gorgeous and he will punch anyone who dares to say otherwise.

Unconsciously and despite himself, Jonathan leans in to kiss… her cheek, temple? Anywhere will do for him at the moment, he thinks distantly.

But she says warningly, catching his intent:

‘Windows, Jonathan.’

‘Right. Yeah,’ he says, hastily clearing his throat and proceeds to cover up his embarrassment by looking out of them again. They’ve been waiting for several of their colleagues to turn up, after receiving word that a suspect wanted for questioning was spotted in the area. However, it’s been a quarter of an hour and there’s still no sign of either the suspect or their fellow PCs. Arabella goes to speak to their friends at the counter and they confirm that they haven’t seen anyone fitting the man’s description. Inwardly, Jonathan thinks she’s made a good call because it gives him a few moments to refocus and set his mind back on the job at hand.

‘You sure Gibbons said Marshalsea Road?’ he asks when she returns, his brow furrowed.

‘Yep, Marshalsea Road off Borough High Street were his exact words.’

They begin to have a conversation about how many of the street names in the area are named after certain characters from Dickens and the personal association the latter had with the place (Jonathan loves these little lulls when they’re on duty), only to have it interrupted by their radios crackling to life. They both rush out into the rain and see Gibbons thundering up the street. The sergeant is stout, soaked through and out of breath.

‘What the hell were you doing in a café?’ he bellows, looking outraged.

‘Admiring the view,’ says Jonathan unthinkingly, overriding Arabella who’s replied ‘Reconnaissance’. She stares up at him, wide-eyed. Gibbons is also staring, but he is steely-eyed and unimpressed.

‘If I wanted bloody Comic Relief, I would have asked for it, Strange.’

‘Sir,’ replies Jonathan stiffly, the closest he can get to sounding apologetic.

‘PC Woodhope, you mentioned reconnaissance, what have you got?’

Arabella has only started speaking when Jonathan suddenly lets out a cry, pushes past the sergeant and breaks into a run. Gibbons grunts in annoyance before realising that the constable is in fact on the heels of their elusive suspect who has decided to make a run for it.

They watch Jonathan dash across the road, oblivious to traffic, pedestrians and everything else which comes his way, even when he narrowly avoids being hit by a car. Gibbons swears he can hear Arabella’s breath catch in her throat at that.

The sergeant is once more pushed aside as Arabella joins in the chase although she does manage to murmur ‘Sorry, sir’ as she goes.

With his long legs, Jonathan is far ahead of her and it is almost impossible to catch up now. Fortunately they know the streets here like the back of their hand so she takes advantage of the dodges – the shortcuts – and after a few minutes sees both men tearing up an alleyway, only this time they’re running straight towards her.

The suspect is looking over his shoulder and so does not see the policewoman blocking his path. Jonathan is flagging a little now, his hair plastered against his forehead, but his face one of determination nonetheless. The man then looks forward and by now she’s close enough to see the surprise in his eyes. Arabella does not hesitate: she launches herself at him and forces him to the ground.

They land messily into a puddle and she expects more of a struggle or a stream of cursing but oddly enough, the man does neither. Realisation slowly dawns on her.

‘Don’t tell me I’ve killed him,’ she says, more to herself than anyone else. Jonathan however has heard her and after helping her up, checks the man’s pulse.

‘You haven’t. Concussed, I think. Must have hit the ground pretty hard though,’ he says thoughtfully.

‘Well, that’s him taught a lesson then.’ Arabella’s voice has an unusual edge to it. ‘As for you…’

She unceremoniously pulls Jonathan up by the collar and briefly taking note of his air of startled bewilderment, firmly plants both her hands about his face and kisses him.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, it occurs to her that what she’s doing is inappropriate, to say the least. The place, the weather (the rain appears even to be falling horizontally now that a breeze picking up), the fact that they’re drenched to the skin and in uniform…everything is utterly and completely wrong. To add yet another layer of weirdness to the proceedings, there’s also an unconscious man lying at their feet. It couldn’t be more unromantic.

But then Jonathan moans softly into her mouth and clearly not content with only the feel of her lips upon his, deepens the kiss. Her brain consequently does the equivalent of a mental short-circuit. She forgets everything that is wrong about the situation and instead focuses on what feels so right: his hands about her waist, the clean smell of him, the faintest trace of stubble on his cheek and his lean, solid frame against hers which is radiating warmth despite how sodden they are.

She steps back and looks at him. He returns her gaze with a dazed look and she notices that his hands are still about her waist as if that is the sole reason he’s upright.

‘Of all the times in all the world, Bell,’ he murmurs when he trusts himself enough to speak in anything other than incoherent monosyllables.

‘That’s for running off and nearly getting yourself killed, Jonathan Strange. Do you have any bloody idea how terrified I was?’ she says, anger creeping into her voice.

That dampens the mood somewhat but she can’t help it. She also can’t help trembling at the recollection of seeing him an inch from death. Jonathan senses this and his expression changes.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,’ he says softly. He tilts her chin upwards, looking into her brown eyes which are glistening a little. An indescribable pang rises in his chest when he realises that she’s on the verge of tears. ‘Forgive me?’

The tenderness in his voice is threatening to undo her, she thinks, and she sniffs a little. ‘I already have.’

‘You’re a fool for doing so,’ he says with a small smile. He bends his head and kisses her.

They are forced to break apart when Gibbons appears on the scene which simultaneously coincides with their suspect regaining consciousness. The latter is confused but responsive. Arabella calls in an ambulance just in case and once the man is loaded in, both she and Jonathan clamber inside.

‘Hang on,’ says Gibbons who has been eying them suspiciously since catching up with them. To him, they appear far too happy, even gleeful, for two rain-sodden constables simply making an arrest. ‘Regulations don’t require two officers to accompany a suspect to the hospital.’

‘Right you are, sir,’ replies Jonathan, adding with a note of unsuppressed triumph as the doors are shut upon him: ‘But we’re partners…in the most literal sense of the word.’


End file.
